Lovely is the place of your abiding,
God of the stars!
The deep places in me respond
with longing
for the place you are;
the joyful song I offer is
the gift of my heart and my body,
my all echoes your all.
The tiniest bird, least of all,
finds home, and sure security
for raising her young,
in the shadow of your altars,
my Own.
To dwell in your presence,
my being reverberating with praise of you,
wraps me in happiness.
---Psalm 84:1-4 (para. laca)
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Friday, March 6, 2015
...beneath your wings
Show mercy to me, my God,
more mercy than I deserve,
my soul seeks sanctuary
hidden in you;
I nestle in the safety and shelter
beneath your wings
while storm winds tear apart the sky.
I call out to you,
you, who know the way ahead of me.
You will clear the path
when there is none,
when obstructions block the way.
Your free-flowing love and
faithfulness meet me where I am.
---Psalm 57:1-3, 5 (para. laca)
There they are, on the webcam. The bald eagle couple, the most famous on-campus residents of Berry College in Rome GA. The pair have nested high in a tree on campus for some time now, and the unfolding domestic drama has lured throngs of viewers to follow the...action, if you could call it that...on their own little nest-cam. With the entirety of campus designated a wildlife sanctuary, encounters of the wild kind are not uncommon; but even at Berry, the eagle family is big news. Rumor is that construction of an on-campus football stadium has been put on hold because its site includes the nesting tree!
So, I was interested to see how the eagle's nest would fare during the recent winter storm in north Georgia. After all, eggs were in the nest, and the eagle couple had been taking turns, sitting in the nest, precious treasures closely guarded under wing. Sure enough, heavy snow covered the Rome area, and the nest-cam showed a thick blanket of white (and not much else) on the nest, high in the tree. Where were the eagles? What would be the fate of the eggs, so vulnerable in the nest? And then I looked closer. And a small hole in the snowy blanket revealed an opening just big enough for a beak, and maybe a black, darting eye piercing the otherwise unbroken expanse of white. The eagle had been there, eggs tucked safely underwing, braving the ferocity of the storm to protect a future she dreamed for her young, a future he cleared the way for by showing up, over and over.
You, my shelter and my guide, steady and loving.
more mercy than I deserve,
my soul seeks sanctuary
hidden in you;
I nestle in the safety and shelter
beneath your wings
while storm winds tear apart the sky.
I call out to you,
you, who know the way ahead of me.
You will clear the path
when there is none,
when obstructions block the way.
Your free-flowing love and
faithfulness meet me where I am.
---Psalm 57:1-3, 5 (para. laca)
There they are, on the webcam. The bald eagle couple, the most famous on-campus residents of Berry College in Rome GA. The pair have nested high in a tree on campus for some time now, and the unfolding domestic drama has lured throngs of viewers to follow the...action, if you could call it that...on their own little nest-cam. With the entirety of campus designated a wildlife sanctuary, encounters of the wild kind are not uncommon; but even at Berry, the eagle family is big news. Rumor is that construction of an on-campus football stadium has been put on hold because its site includes the nesting tree!
So, I was interested to see how the eagle's nest would fare during the recent winter storm in north Georgia. After all, eggs were in the nest, and the eagle couple had been taking turns, sitting in the nest, precious treasures closely guarded under wing. Sure enough, heavy snow covered the Rome area, and the nest-cam showed a thick blanket of white (and not much else) on the nest, high in the tree. Where were the eagles? What would be the fate of the eggs, so vulnerable in the nest? And then I looked closer. And a small hole in the snowy blanket revealed an opening just big enough for a beak, and maybe a black, darting eye piercing the otherwise unbroken expanse of white. The eagle had been there, eggs tucked safely underwing, braving the ferocity of the storm to protect a future she dreamed for her young, a future he cleared the way for by showing up, over and over.
You, my shelter and my guide, steady and loving.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
...before I move on from here
Do you hear my plea, Mystery,
does my cry turn your head?
Notice my weeping, do not
sit silent and aloof.
For I am a sojourner,
a gypsy, a rambler,
like all my people before me.
Do not pierce me with your gaze,
let relief flood my features,
before I move on from here.
---Psalm 39:12-13 (para. laca)
There have been times, I am sure, when we have all felt like flying under the radar; when going unnoticed would have been a good thing. There may be times we want to blend in, or times when what we were doing was distinctly un-noteworthy (sometimes being noticed would have been the worst thing!).
In these verses, though, I feel the psalmist's yearning for God to notice, to really see, the person in the crowd. Begging for God to hear, to turn, to soften to the suffering of the alien in this land of belong-ers. Not as one of the crowd, although maybe that, too. But See me, God. Individually. Equally. Valuably.
Mark my passing through. See me.
does my cry turn your head?
Notice my weeping, do not
sit silent and aloof.
For I am a sojourner,
a gypsy, a rambler,
like all my people before me.
Do not pierce me with your gaze,
let relief flood my features,
before I move on from here.
---Psalm 39:12-13 (para. laca)
There have been times, I am sure, when we have all felt like flying under the radar; when going unnoticed would have been a good thing. There may be times we want to blend in, or times when what we were doing was distinctly un-noteworthy (sometimes being noticed would have been the worst thing!).
In these verses, though, I feel the psalmist's yearning for God to notice, to really see, the person in the crowd. Begging for God to hear, to turn, to soften to the suffering of the alien in this land of belong-ers. Not as one of the crowd, although maybe that, too. But See me, God. Individually. Equally. Valuably.
Mark my passing through. See me.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
...to wait in this quiet
Hear me, the words
slip from my lips,
turn your grace toward me,
answer me, hear me.
My heart whispers to me
to seek your face.
I desire to meet your gaze;
you hear me-- let me look
into your eyes.
I trust that your goodness
will be revealed to me
here in the fullness of life.
I will wait with expectation for you;
I am strong enough, my soul
courageous enough,
to wait in this quiet, for you.
---Psalm 27:7-9, 13-14 (para. laca)
God, give me the strength to wait on you when no word is forthcoming. The peace and stillness to sit in emptiness, to wait in active hope for something I am not guaranteed. Quiet my anxiety over what you will or will not do, and teach me to simply desire to meet you.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
...one choice, one time
When you think of me, Otherness,
call to mind your mercy,
your compassion,
timeless, ageless.
Put away from you
the memories of
my missed marks,
my rebelliousness;
see me through the lens of
your changeless love,
because you are love.
---Psalm 25:6-7 (para. laca)
When we think of someone, we have a choice. We can choose to think of them in light of who they are and what they have done. Or we can choose to evaluate them in light of who we are. This choice is a fundamental, bedrock decision for us.
Choose the former, and we will be making continual decisions based on circumstances beyond our control, overwhelmed with stimuli and variables. Each person will be judged on their choices and behaviors at every given moment, at every interaction with us. Whew.
Choose the latter, and we see others through the lens of our own compassion, and treat them accordingly. Consistently, compassionately. Based not on who they are, or what kind of mess they've gotten into, but on who we are, on our own depth of compassion. One choice, one time, acted on continually.
I choose continual compassion.
call to mind your mercy,
your compassion,
timeless, ageless.
Put away from you
the memories of
my missed marks,
my rebelliousness;
see me through the lens of
your changeless love,
because you are love.
---Psalm 25:6-7 (para. laca)
When we think of someone, we have a choice. We can choose to think of them in light of who they are and what they have done. Or we can choose to evaluate them in light of who we are. This choice is a fundamental, bedrock decision for us.
Choose the former, and we will be making continual decisions based on circumstances beyond our control, overwhelmed with stimuli and variables. Each person will be judged on their choices and behaviors at every given moment, at every interaction with us. Whew.
Choose the latter, and we see others through the lens of our own compassion, and treat them accordingly. Consistently, compassionately. Based not on who they are, or what kind of mess they've gotten into, but on who we are, on our own depth of compassion. One choice, one time, acted on continually.
I choose continual compassion.
Monday, March 2, 2015
...shown up dressed alike
Here we are Lord.
We’re dressed in suits and
blue jeans,
Skirts and capris,
Sandals and high heels,
Polo shirts and ties.
Here we are Lord.
We’re dressed in robes of
celebration,
Masks of insecurity,
The sack cloth and ashes of
mourning and grief.
Here we are Lord,
And we’ve shown up dressed
alike ---
Clothed in your mercy and
grace.
We’ve all shown up dressed
alike---
And we are grateful.
We stand in awe of your
ability to speak to each of us,
All of us,
And we are listening.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
...rolling over me
Jesus! What a help in sorrow! While the billows o’er me
roll,
Even when my heart is breaking, He my comfort, helps my
soul.
Hallelujah! what a Savior! Hallelujah! what a friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving, He is with me to the
end.
---J. Wilbur Chapman, 1907
While I have spent a few days on beaches in Hawaii and New
England, and lived as a child close to the Atlantic beaches and marshy
waterways of Charleston, and I’ve enjoyed Atlantic coast vacations from the
Carolina barrier islands down to St. Augustine, I’m most familiar with Gulf
Coast beaches. I’ve seen the waters stirred up ugly café au lait in front of a
storm, foam blowing up onto the sand. I’ve seen them full of jellyfish or
stinging nettles, too bothersome to play in. I’ve seen them placid as a lake,
glassy green surface reflecting a yellow sun. And occasionally I’ve seen the
perfect Gulf beach day, the one from all the tourism ads --- azure sky,
sapphire water, dazzling-white sand, even some waves breaking thirty yards out.
And while I’ve been knocked down by the surf in Hanauma Bay, and cut to shreds
by what passes for sand in the frigid surf on Wingaersheek Beach, this Gulf is
my experience of the sea.
So when I picture sea billows rolling over me, I have no
context from real life. And so I turn to the beautiful classic surfing films The
Endless Summer and Morning of the
Earth. Oh. Those billows. Wow. The kind of waves that carry tons of
water volume in them, the kind that can crush you. Those. Even when life is doing to my heart what those waves
do to surfers who catch the wrong edge, Jesus. Even then, Jesus. When I’ve had
to let go control of what happens next --- because, let’s face it, the wave is
in control --- even then, Jesus. When I am not sure when the end will be, or
which way is up, and I’m not too sure the tumbling will stop, Jesus.
Saving, helping, keeping, loving. To the end.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
...for all the days that are
You are my shepherd,
you meet needs I do not know.
You find peace for me in lovely places,
rest where waters refresh instead of threaten;
my spirit regains its wholeness in your care.
Because of who you are
you help me walk the path.
When the trail cuts the valley,
and shadows grow purple and deep,
your presence and your promise
keep my fear at bay;
your protection, even your teaching,
are a comfort in the dark.
You set a fellowship table in the open,
refusing to let me treat the other as enemy;
you set me aside for a special thing;
it is so much, I can't take it all in.
My God, your good grace and mercy
will be my traveling companions
all my life long;
and I will count your dwelling as my
place of abiding for all the days that are.
Psalm 23 (para. laca)
you meet needs I do not know.
You find peace for me in lovely places,
rest where waters refresh instead of threaten;
my spirit regains its wholeness in your care.
Because of who you are
you help me walk the path.
When the trail cuts the valley,
and shadows grow purple and deep,
your presence and your promise
keep my fear at bay;
your protection, even your teaching,
are a comfort in the dark.
You set a fellowship table in the open,
refusing to let me treat the other as enemy;
you set me aside for a special thing;
it is so much, I can't take it all in.
My God, your good grace and mercy
will be my traveling companions
all my life long;
and I will count your dwelling as my
place of abiding for all the days that are.
Psalm 23 (para. laca)
Friday, February 27, 2015
...overwhelmed, battered, bathed
My soul has found its low place,
lost to yesterday and yesterday,
so I labor to recall you from
beautiful days, from times of
close ease. I do remember you.
The deep places in me echo
with the thunder of earth's deep places;
I'm overwhelmed, battered, bathed
where the waters fall away.
By day, your steadfast love;
by night, your song;
my spirit returns to you.
---Psalm 42: 4-8 (para. laca)
I have found myself at my lowest when I have forgotten the track record of the One who walks with me. It is easy for us, I think, to get beaten down, or worn down, and forget to remember. And, once we get rusty at calling to remembrance, we lose our backward vision. We panic, and grope, and grasp for a handhold on this path, all the while feeling we must have been abandoned.
Then the thunder of yearning from the deep spaces of our souls is matched by the thunder of our filling; the provision, the meeting, and the cacophony batters us, cleanses us, restores us. We know the hesed, the steadfast love, that both nourishes and challenges us, by day. And by night, when darkness tugs at the edges of our awareness and threatens our tenuous, newly-reclaimed security, we hear faint strains of a song, the middle-of-the-night song that calms and soothes us back to sleep, safe in the arms of the One who loves us.
lost to yesterday and yesterday,
so I labor to recall you from
beautiful days, from times of
close ease. I do remember you.
The deep places in me echo
with the thunder of earth's deep places;
I'm overwhelmed, battered, bathed
where the waters fall away.
By day, your steadfast love;
by night, your song;
my spirit returns to you.
---Psalm 42: 4-8 (para. laca)
I have found myself at my lowest when I have forgotten the track record of the One who walks with me. It is easy for us, I think, to get beaten down, or worn down, and forget to remember. And, once we get rusty at calling to remembrance, we lose our backward vision. We panic, and grope, and grasp for a handhold on this path, all the while feeling we must have been abandoned.
Then the thunder of yearning from the deep spaces of our souls is matched by the thunder of our filling; the provision, the meeting, and the cacophony batters us, cleanses us, restores us. We know the hesed, the steadfast love, that both nourishes and challenges us, by day. And by night, when darkness tugs at the edges of our awareness and threatens our tenuous, newly-reclaimed security, we hear faint strains of a song, the middle-of-the-night song that calms and soothes us back to sleep, safe in the arms of the One who loves us.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
...to turn on the light
Do not, Mystery and Mercy, keep from me
what you alone can grant;
wrap me in the safety of your
strong and steady love,
let me feel the 'yes' of your faithfulness.
For the darkness of the world
tangles around me,
enmeshed with my own
inner shadow spaces,
until vision is a memory,
or a dream;
the shadows innumerable,
my weakness takes my breath away.
You would delight to see me
delivered, relieved of
threats from the world,
and of my own weaving.
---Psalm 40:11-13 (para. laca)
It is so easy for me to get 'wrapped up', entangled, knotted, in the bad things happening out there. World things that happen because we are part of this world. Stuff that goes down in this broken world. Things people do that they have no business doing. Some of those things, they do to me. I know, right? And it makes me want to cry out, "God help us!" And sometimes I do. And once in a while I get a little more selfish, and I want to cry, "God help me!"
And sometimes I do.
And God, Mystery and Mercy, says "Here I am." Which isn't always as satisfying as, "I hereby slap the baddies with tough karma and the flu!" But, then, God is God, and maybe plays the game a few moves ahead of us.
And there is this other thing. With all the darkness in the world, we sometimes can't let well enough alone. We go around creating more, and hiding it away in the nooks and crannies of our own souls. Friends, those shadowy places inside of us? They are at least as dangerous and threatening as the darkness the world tries to wrap around us. They push against us from the inside, sending out tangles of pain and hurt that interweave with the hurt and pain winding around us from the outside, and we are caught in the middle, left breathless and helpless, bound by the shadows. We can't even remember what it was to see clearly, or picture what it might be like to see again.
But the story doesn't end there. The great mystery and mercy is that, in the moment of our night-blindness, when we are bound by darkness falling on us and coming from us, there is One who is pleased to cut us loose, and turn on the light.
Praise be.
what you alone can grant;
wrap me in the safety of your
strong and steady love,
let me feel the 'yes' of your faithfulness.
For the darkness of the world
tangles around me,
enmeshed with my own
inner shadow spaces,
until vision is a memory,
or a dream;
the shadows innumerable,
my weakness takes my breath away.
You would delight to see me
delivered, relieved of
threats from the world,
and of my own weaving.
---Psalm 40:11-13 (para. laca)
It is so easy for me to get 'wrapped up', entangled, knotted, in the bad things happening out there. World things that happen because we are part of this world. Stuff that goes down in this broken world. Things people do that they have no business doing. Some of those things, they do to me. I know, right? And it makes me want to cry out, "God help us!" And sometimes I do. And once in a while I get a little more selfish, and I want to cry, "God help me!"
And sometimes I do.
And God, Mystery and Mercy, says "Here I am." Which isn't always as satisfying as, "I hereby slap the baddies with tough karma and the flu!" But, then, God is God, and maybe plays the game a few moves ahead of us.
And there is this other thing. With all the darkness in the world, we sometimes can't let well enough alone. We go around creating more, and hiding it away in the nooks and crannies of our own souls. Friends, those shadowy places inside of us? They are at least as dangerous and threatening as the darkness the world tries to wrap around us. They push against us from the inside, sending out tangles of pain and hurt that interweave with the hurt and pain winding around us from the outside, and we are caught in the middle, left breathless and helpless, bound by the shadows. We can't even remember what it was to see clearly, or picture what it might be like to see again.
But the story doesn't end there. The great mystery and mercy is that, in the moment of our night-blindness, when we are bound by darkness falling on us and coming from us, there is One who is pleased to cut us loose, and turn on the light.
Praise be.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
...just in time
You satisfy both my hunger and my thirst,
I've cast my lot with you.
Looking back, I see my path
gently leading me just so.
Bless you, who inspire me
from the soul of my knowing.
With you clear in my view,
no one will move me.
Deep gladness fills me,
joy seeps from my pores;
even my body finds peace, sure peace.
---Psalm 16:5-9 (para. laca)
People are so disillusioned with...everything today. Is there anything that does not disappoint? Products, 'miracle' or otherwise, don't work as advertised. Movies, games, books, TV series are boring, formulaic, derivative. Food is fattening, or tasteless, tainted, genetically-modified (or not), or produced without benefit of fair-trade scrutiny. Modern medicine doesn't cure all of our aches and pains, and hasn't found answers for some of the killing questions of our human race; vaccines save countless lives, yet are blamed for gaps in prediction from year to year. Relationships fail to anticipate every need, for closeness, space, bonding, independence, validation. Is it any wonder we are disappointed people?
There is always the chance, though, that we are looking for the wrong things, in the wrong places. When I come to this clearing in the pathway, I can't help but see that I've been led to this place, shepherded away from danger and guided toward treasure to discover. There have been tears, there have. But here in this clearing there is gladness, for this moment. And now, face upturned, there is joy starting somewhere deep. Here in this clearing on my path, for now, there is relief and peace for my body, the house of my spirit.
I have been gently led here, just in time for this moment. And I can't help but believe there is more to come. Thank You.
I've cast my lot with you.
Looking back, I see my path
gently leading me just so.
Bless you, who inspire me
from the soul of my knowing.
With you clear in my view,
no one will move me.
Deep gladness fills me,
joy seeps from my pores;
even my body finds peace, sure peace.
---Psalm 16:5-9 (para. laca)
People are so disillusioned with...everything today. Is there anything that does not disappoint? Products, 'miracle' or otherwise, don't work as advertised. Movies, games, books, TV series are boring, formulaic, derivative. Food is fattening, or tasteless, tainted, genetically-modified (or not), or produced without benefit of fair-trade scrutiny. Modern medicine doesn't cure all of our aches and pains, and hasn't found answers for some of the killing questions of our human race; vaccines save countless lives, yet are blamed for gaps in prediction from year to year. Relationships fail to anticipate every need, for closeness, space, bonding, independence, validation. Is it any wonder we are disappointed people?
There is always the chance, though, that we are looking for the wrong things, in the wrong places. When I come to this clearing in the pathway, I can't help but see that I've been led to this place, shepherded away from danger and guided toward treasure to discover. There have been tears, there have. But here in this clearing there is gladness, for this moment. And now, face upturned, there is joy starting somewhere deep. Here in this clearing on my path, for now, there is relief and peace for my body, the house of my spirit.
I have been gently led here, just in time for this moment. And I can't help but believe there is more to come. Thank You.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
...you have dreamed my future
You, you my solid center and my shelter,
because of your nature
lead me, urge me on.
I am entangled;
be my rescue and my refuge.
My spirit flies to your safekeeping;
you have dreamed my future,
Ever-Presence.
---Psalm 31:3-5 (para. laca)
There is a kind of parent I dream of being. It's the fierce mother bear when I need to be, hackles up when there is no doubt about the danger around. It's the sage teacher, asking the right questions at the right times. The cheerleader on the sidelines, my kids' biggest fan. The safe place to fall, when life does what life does. And most of all, I'd like to be the parent that dreams my child's future. I'd like to look into her newborn eyes, his infant face, and see past the hurt and disappointment sure to line life's pathway; and I'd like to dream a future that redeems all of that for them, a future that makes costly sense of the suffering that might come. I'd like to be the parent who could plant that dream of the future in my child, to instill in her the knowledge that she is valued, that he is bought and paid for.
Because knowing you are redeemed? That kind of dream sets you free.
because of your nature
lead me, urge me on.
I am entangled;
be my rescue and my refuge.
My spirit flies to your safekeeping;
you have dreamed my future,
Ever-Presence.
---Psalm 31:3-5 (para. laca)
There is a kind of parent I dream of being. It's the fierce mother bear when I need to be, hackles up when there is no doubt about the danger around. It's the sage teacher, asking the right questions at the right times. The cheerleader on the sidelines, my kids' biggest fan. The safe place to fall, when life does what life does. And most of all, I'd like to be the parent that dreams my child's future. I'd like to look into her newborn eyes, his infant face, and see past the hurt and disappointment sure to line life's pathway; and I'd like to dream a future that redeems all of that for them, a future that makes costly sense of the suffering that might come. I'd like to be the parent who could plant that dream of the future in my child, to instill in her the knowledge that she is valued, that he is bought and paid for.
Because knowing you are redeemed? That kind of dream sets you free.
Monday, February 23, 2015
...till mercy showers down
To you my gaze is lifted,
you sitting among the stars!
As a servant looks to his master,
as a maid looks to her lady,
my eyes search yours,
until mercy showers down.
Mercy, my Own, mercy,
for more contempt is
more than I can bear.
---Psalm 123:1-3 (para. laca)
There is something about meanness and people. Okay. Not all people, but lots of us. Me. I'm guilty sometimes. Maybe you? I'm mean. Now sometimes it's when I feel I've been backed into a corner, and I am in counterattack mode. And sometimes I'm just mean in my head, and the rest of the world never hears a word of it (ok, straight up, this is where I'm the meanest). Rarely, the mean spills out and burns someone else --- either the target of my mean, or an unlucky innocent bystander. This is not a side of myself that makes me proud, even when it is couched in the dubious humour of sarcasm. And I think mean is epidemic in our culture right now. If it were medical, we'd be marching on Washington for a cure, wearing color-of-the-day ribbons, having thing-a-thons to stamp it out forever. But, since all we have to do to stop it is to, well, stop it, the culture of mean continues to lurk around every corner, waiting to pounce.
In this world rife with contempt, communion with the Author of mercy is precious. My God, can you imagine what mercy would be worth to someone beat down by contempt? Maybe everything? And haven't we all, every one of us, had our fill of contempt? Find your wild place, and sit, and wait...till mercy showers down.
you sitting among the stars!
As a servant looks to his master,
as a maid looks to her lady,
my eyes search yours,
until mercy showers down.
Mercy, my Own, mercy,
for more contempt is
more than I can bear.
---Psalm 123:1-3 (para. laca)
There is something about meanness and people. Okay. Not all people, but lots of us. Me. I'm guilty sometimes. Maybe you? I'm mean. Now sometimes it's when I feel I've been backed into a corner, and I am in counterattack mode. And sometimes I'm just mean in my head, and the rest of the world never hears a word of it (ok, straight up, this is where I'm the meanest). Rarely, the mean spills out and burns someone else --- either the target of my mean, or an unlucky innocent bystander. This is not a side of myself that makes me proud, even when it is couched in the dubious humour of sarcasm. And I think mean is epidemic in our culture right now. If it were medical, we'd be marching on Washington for a cure, wearing color-of-the-day ribbons, having thing-a-thons to stamp it out forever. But, since all we have to do to stop it is to, well, stop it, the culture of mean continues to lurk around every corner, waiting to pounce.
In this world rife with contempt, communion with the Author of mercy is precious. My God, can you imagine what mercy would be worth to someone beat down by contempt? Maybe everything? And haven't we all, every one of us, had our fill of contempt? Find your wild place, and sit, and wait...till mercy showers down.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
...to make holy
When
through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The
rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;
For I
will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,
And
sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
---K
There are lots of ways to look at the rough patches and
tragedies in our lives. Some folk choose to look at everything that happens as
God’s distinct will, some look at bad stuff as karma or payback. I see the bad
things that happen as part of the price of being truly human in this world. For
me, this resonates with my observations, with history, with my own life
experience, and with my belief in a loving God.
In today’s hymn, with its text from the 18th
century, the hymnist speaks from the viewpoint of a strong, caring God to a
searching believer. We will be called, no choice about it, through our life
experiences, to journey through deep waters; but we will not go alone. God goes
with us through our troubles and distress, to bless and even to make holy those
experiences that try us the most. To me this says that God can bring some worth
out of even the most tragic, worthless, hurtful situation.
What a hopeful thought from a loving God!
Saturday, February 21, 2015
...here I linger
Open my eyes to your ways,
set my feet on the paths you clear.
Beckon me with truth, help me learn,
for you are my saving Way:
here I linger until you lead.
---Psalm 25:4-5 (para. laca)
Linger. Stay. Abide. Wait. How hard is this for you? How long are you willing to wait? How long before you begin to fidget, doodle, fuss, daydream, grumble, toe-tap, throat-clear, or whine? Does it depend on what you are waiting for? How special does it have to be for you to wait patiently? What if you are not sure at all what you are awaiting? What if you are waiting for something you hope for, that you pray you will recognize when it happens?
As we wait in this holy season, how do we sit in our uncertainty? Do we wait in expectation? Trepidation? Do we wait hungering and thirsting to be filled? Searching for a true north? Dare we wait in a silent void, with no voices, no flashing arrows, no yellow brick road? Shall we wait 40 days, while other voices whisper to us from other hills, while the yellow eyes of desert creatures shine unblinking in the night?
Here I linger, until you lead...
set my feet on the paths you clear.
Beckon me with truth, help me learn,
for you are my saving Way:
here I linger until you lead.
---Psalm 25:4-5 (para. laca)
Linger. Stay. Abide. Wait. How hard is this for you? How long are you willing to wait? How long before you begin to fidget, doodle, fuss, daydream, grumble, toe-tap, throat-clear, or whine? Does it depend on what you are waiting for? How special does it have to be for you to wait patiently? What if you are not sure at all what you are awaiting? What if you are waiting for something you hope for, that you pray you will recognize when it happens?
As we wait in this holy season, how do we sit in our uncertainty? Do we wait in expectation? Trepidation? Do we wait hungering and thirsting to be filled? Searching for a true north? Dare we wait in a silent void, with no voices, no flashing arrows, no yellow brick road? Shall we wait 40 days, while other voices whisper to us from other hills, while the yellow eyes of desert creatures shine unblinking in the night?
Here I linger, until you lead...
Thursday, February 19, 2015
...held close in her mother's embrace
Name, my heart is not racing,
my gaze doesn't search the stars;
my mind doesn't dwell on
what will always elude me.
Instead, my soul is silent and still,
content as a weaned child held close
in her mother's embrace.
---Psalm 131:1-2 (para. laca)
When I nursed my babies, there was a closeness between us, a symbiosis, that is like nothing I have ever shared with any other person. These tiny beings grew in me for months, dependent on my body for every bit of life. Then, the sudden violence of separation. From the warmth and closeness of the womb, shadowy and quiet, to the cold and glare of real life. From that moment of birth, of separation, when somehow one being becomes two people, the search begins. The unquenchable thirst --- for nourishment, yes, but for more. When a babe snuggled into me, it was also in search of that warm, dark place that had been home for so long. Every nerve, every sinew was laser-focused on latching on and settling in, drinking urgently, as if life depended on it. Because life depended on it.
And there were times when I was weary of it. The inconvenience of entertaining a toddler while nursing a baby, all balanced on a toilet in a dirty bathroom stall at McDonald's. The messiness of nursing. The on-call-ness of it. The soreness of it. The way brushing my baby's cheek could set off the craned neck of a Pavlovian response, feeding time or no. The Pavlovian response of my body to the sound of my own baby's cries. There's a weariness about it, no doubt.
But in a little while, or a lot, you and your baby find, together, that the time has come for moving on, to a sippy cup with a whale on it, or a cow, or to a bowl of strained peaches or rice cereal. Nursing, when it happens, loses the frantic searching quality of early infancy, and it is time. Your babe is not a babe, but a child, weaned.
And your child still comes to you in the shadows, nestles into you, head tucked into the space under your chin. You still wrap your arms around your child, you breathe together, you rock back and forth. There is no more frantic striving, none of the urgent needing of infancy. In its place, there is stillness. There is silence. There is contentment.
my gaze doesn't search the stars;
my mind doesn't dwell on
what will always elude me.
Instead, my soul is silent and still,
content as a weaned child held close
in her mother's embrace.
---Psalm 131:1-2 (para. laca)
When I nursed my babies, there was a closeness between us, a symbiosis, that is like nothing I have ever shared with any other person. These tiny beings grew in me for months, dependent on my body for every bit of life. Then, the sudden violence of separation. From the warmth and closeness of the womb, shadowy and quiet, to the cold and glare of real life. From that moment of birth, of separation, when somehow one being becomes two people, the search begins. The unquenchable thirst --- for nourishment, yes, but for more. When a babe snuggled into me, it was also in search of that warm, dark place that had been home for so long. Every nerve, every sinew was laser-focused on latching on and settling in, drinking urgently, as if life depended on it. Because life depended on it.
And there were times when I was weary of it. The inconvenience of entertaining a toddler while nursing a baby, all balanced on a toilet in a dirty bathroom stall at McDonald's. The messiness of nursing. The on-call-ness of it. The soreness of it. The way brushing my baby's cheek could set off the craned neck of a Pavlovian response, feeding time or no. The Pavlovian response of my body to the sound of my own baby's cries. There's a weariness about it, no doubt.
But in a little while, or a lot, you and your baby find, together, that the time has come for moving on, to a sippy cup with a whale on it, or a cow, or to a bowl of strained peaches or rice cereal. Nursing, when it happens, loses the frantic searching quality of early infancy, and it is time. Your babe is not a babe, but a child, weaned.
And your child still comes to you in the shadows, nestles into you, head tucked into the space under your chin. You still wrap your arms around your child, you breathe together, you rock back and forth. There is no more frantic striving, none of the urgent needing of infancy. In its place, there is stillness. There is silence. There is contentment.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
...into the wild places
And he was blown by the Spirit into the wild places.
He was there for 40 days, long enough to know,
tempted by what would have distracted Him from finding.
And the creatures there were wild things,
and angels were close by.
---Mark 1:12-13 (LACA)
This (very loose) poetic paraphrase of Mark's story of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness relates an episode from Jesus' life that has always fascinated me. Jesus, fully human, fully God. Both at once. The fully God part is, for my mind, much too vast to ever adequately unpack. The fully human aspect of Jesus' nature means, to me, that Jesus learned and grew, much as we ourselves do. So I wonder if, as the Holy Spirit compelled him into the desert following his baptism in the Jordan by cousin John, he thought to himself, How bizarre. What? What is it you want from me, Spirit? What shall I do? Who do I ask? How will I know? Am I enough?
Am I enough? Who of us hasn't been blown into our own wild places, forced to face the great silence, and wait with the wild things? Who of us hasn't counted off the days, 10, 15, 30, until the days were enough --- enough --- enough? Felt the rhythm of enough-ness in 40? Hasn't felt tempted by the glittery, shimmering thats lurking just off our path of finding?
Don't fear the 40 days. There is One gone before us into the wild places. And there are angels close by.
He was there for 40 days, long enough to know,
tempted by what would have distracted Him from finding.
And the creatures there were wild things,
and angels were close by.
---Mark 1:12-13 (LACA)
This (very loose) poetic paraphrase of Mark's story of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness relates an episode from Jesus' life that has always fascinated me. Jesus, fully human, fully God. Both at once. The fully God part is, for my mind, much too vast to ever adequately unpack. The fully human aspect of Jesus' nature means, to me, that Jesus learned and grew, much as we ourselves do. So I wonder if, as the Holy Spirit compelled him into the desert following his baptism in the Jordan by cousin John, he thought to himself, How bizarre. What? What is it you want from me, Spirit? What shall I do? Who do I ask? How will I know? Am I enough?
Am I enough? Who of us hasn't been blown into our own wild places, forced to face the great silence, and wait with the wild things? Who of us hasn't counted off the days, 10, 15, 30, until the days were enough --- enough --- enough? Felt the rhythm of enough-ness in 40? Hasn't felt tempted by the glittery, shimmering thats lurking just off our path of finding?
Don't fear the 40 days. There is One gone before us into the wild places. And there are angels close by.
Monday, February 16, 2015
...fully known, fully loved, at home
There are depths of love that I cannot know till I cross
the narrow sea;
There are heights of joy that I may not reach till I rest
in peace with Thee.
Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord, to the cross where
Thou hast died;
Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord, to Thy precious
bleeding side.
---Fanny J. Crosby, 1875
There are lots of sayings, maxims, proverbs, and mottos
around the concept of ‘home’. Many of them are cross-stitched on pillows, and
the rest are internet memes. I’ll admit, I have my favorites. From the musical The
Wiz, “When I think of home, I think of the
place where there’s love overflowing.” And another of my favorites goes
something like, “Home. Where the people who know you best still let you in at
the end of every day.” There is just something about being home, of being fully known and fully
loved, just because you are.
I think hymnist great Fanny J. Crosby may have been thinking
of home when she penned this verse nearly 150 years ago. Here in this life we
get glimpses and glimmers of love and of joy. We know communion with God, and
fellowship with others. We find purpose and fulfillment in pouring out our
lives in service for a needy world. But there is a knowing, an immersion, that may only fully happen when we
leave this part of life behind, when the things that bind us to this world let
us go.
Or, as St. Paul said, “Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but
then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully,
even as I have been fully known.”
Home. Draw me nearer, Lord, to Your side.
Monday, February 9, 2015
...borne safe
When ends life’s transient dream,
When death’s cold, sullen stream shall o’er me roll,
Blest Savior, then, in love,
Fear and distrust remove;
O bear me safe above, a ransomed soul.
---Ray Palmer, 1830
There are some days inspiration flows easily. There are
others when I sit and stare at the screen (or the composition book page if I’m
rocking it old school) and it stares back at me. Then there are days when the
text bounces back to me, twisted fantastically, as if by a funhouse mirror,
distortions and warps making it hard to grasp meaning.
Guess which afternoon it’s been? This verse from the beloved
mid-19th century hymn pulled me toward it, then reflected back at
me: “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream; merrily, merrily merrily,
merrily, life is but a dream.” Yep. Talk about a brain freeze.
So, I scrolled down on my page, past those first two lines
of the verse (out of sight, sort of out of mind). And got to something I could
hold onto, something that would hold onto me. In love Jesus, in the midst of
our fear, ransoms our souls. In love the Savior, our distrust notwithstanding,
bears us safe through the transient dream of this life.
Let me be wholly Yours.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
...not the end
Lean on me when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on;
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on.
---Bill Withers
You may have been following the viral saga in the Humans of New York photo series of Vidal, Principal Lopez, and their school in Brownsville, Brooklyn, the Mott Hall Bridges Academy. 13-year-old Vidal mentioned the influence on his life of Principal Lopez, who had elevated this school and its students to a place of pride and achievement in its neighborhood. As often happens with photo subjects in this series, Lopez was then located and interviewed as a subject herself, and it soon became clear that the story was more complex than your average feel-good 'education saved me' story.
Because Principal Lopez shared that, when contacted by HONY staff about Vidal's comments, she had been composing her resignation letter. She was tired, depleted, beaten down and worn out by the demands and expectations of having to accomplish too much with too little, day after too long day. "I was broken," she said. Broken. Not incompetent. Not uncaring. Not even burned-out, really. Broken. And then. And then, Vidal. Vidal, sharing how a principal had changed his life by changing his school culture. Because a HONY photographer asked the right question of the right random person walking down the right random street. And then. And then, the responses. Likes, hundreds of thousands of them. Positive comments. Scholarship offers for the local school, from all over the place.
Principal Lopez' resignation letter was not delivered. The Academy is reenergized.
In carpentry, beams often become weak or broken in places or ways that preclude their being removed or replaced; they cannot function adequately, but cannot be replaced with new wood. In such cases, a new beam is placed alongside the weak or broken beam, strengthening it for continued service. In the field, this practice is called sistering. In carpentry, a useful practice. In life, none of us can do without it.
Because, sisters and brothers, we're all broken. But brokenness is not. the end. of the story.
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on;
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on.
---Bill Withers
You may have been following the viral saga in the Humans of New York photo series of Vidal, Principal Lopez, and their school in Brownsville, Brooklyn, the Mott Hall Bridges Academy. 13-year-old Vidal mentioned the influence on his life of Principal Lopez, who had elevated this school and its students to a place of pride and achievement in its neighborhood. As often happens with photo subjects in this series, Lopez was then located and interviewed as a subject herself, and it soon became clear that the story was more complex than your average feel-good 'education saved me' story.
Because Principal Lopez shared that, when contacted by HONY staff about Vidal's comments, she had been composing her resignation letter. She was tired, depleted, beaten down and worn out by the demands and expectations of having to accomplish too much with too little, day after too long day. "I was broken," she said. Broken. Not incompetent. Not uncaring. Not even burned-out, really. Broken. And then. And then, Vidal. Vidal, sharing how a principal had changed his life by changing his school culture. Because a HONY photographer asked the right question of the right random person walking down the right random street. And then. And then, the responses. Likes, hundreds of thousands of them. Positive comments. Scholarship offers for the local school, from all over the place.
Principal Lopez' resignation letter was not delivered. The Academy is reenergized.
In carpentry, beams often become weak or broken in places or ways that preclude their being removed or replaced; they cannot function adequately, but cannot be replaced with new wood. In such cases, a new beam is placed alongside the weak or broken beam, strengthening it for continued service. In the field, this practice is called sistering. In carpentry, a useful practice. In life, none of us can do without it.
Because, sisters and brothers, we're all broken. But brokenness is not. the end. of the story.
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